


Fair Play

by liketolaugh



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Apprentice!Cross, Gen, General!Allen, Role Reversal, they deserve each other tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7871173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liketolaugh/pseuds/liketolaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cross hated his master. Really. Allen fucking Walker was the most infuriatingly mysterious human being on the planet - but even Cross couldn't say Allen had done a bad job looking after him. Oneshot series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Cross felt naked without Judgement by his side.

He hadn’t ever gotten a chance to notice this before; he’d hardly put Judgement aside since he’d first activated his Innocence. It had always been nearby.

But if he wanted to go in that room- If he wanted to talk to Allen- He had to hand it over.

He did it without a second thought.

The zombie incident aside (Cross loved the Science Department, he really did) Cross hadn’t seen his master since the Level Four attack, when the man had swept in at the last moment, taken it down with _visible_ effort and a terrifying amount of blood, and collapsed.

(Cross had collapsed as well, shortly after, so it unfortunately he couldn’t make fun of his master for that, because Allen _would_ turn it around on him.)

The point was, though, that Cross had a few – more than a few – questions for his frustrating master.

Why had Allen been able to control the Ark?

Did Allen really know the Fourteenth?

Why hadn’t he told Cross any of this?

So he surrendered his weapon, and he walked into the room, and he looked around.

Allen was standing by the window, leaning against it, watching Cross with his characteristic smile gone – something that frightened Cross more than he’d ever admit. His arm was bound thickly with long binding spell ropes, and Allen was listing to that side, so subtly that Cross didn’t think anyone else would’ve noticed. His long white hair was tied back in a ponytail for once, and the scar on his face stood out even worse than usual.

There were guards at every corner of the room, spell strips lining the walls, and out of the corner of his eye, Cross spotted Lavi, in his Bookman getup and wearing a neutral expression. It was almost reassuring.

“You look like shit,” Cross told Allen, deeply disturbed by how _tired_ he looked.

Allen smiled at him, and Cross scowled. “I know,” Allen admitted, with a hint of wry amusement. He pushed off the window and approached Cross, as easily as if he wasn’t burdened by any spell at all. He stopped in front of Cross – Cross noticed, annoyed, that the man was still taller than him – and his smile slipped off again, grey eyes solemn. “Are you alright? I heard that they put a watchdog on you. I’m sorry.”

Cross scowled. “Whatever,” he mumbled, and then, “Look, are you talking or what? Are you finally going to say something honest for once in your overlong life?”

Allen laughed. Then, to Cross’ surprise, he replied, “Yes, I am.” His smile softened and became sad, and Cross’ scowl faltered. “I owe you an explanation, I think.”

“Damn right,” Cross snapped, forcing the hurt out of his voice even as his fists clenched, red eyes glaring into Allen’s. “You couldn’t find time in five fucking years to tell me _any_ of this?”

“You weren’t ready,” Allen returned, still infuriatingly steady, with that same soft, sad smile that made Cross want to kill something. “And neither was I.”

That caught Cross off-guard. Of course it did. Catching Cross off-guard was what Allen did best, apparently. Before Cross could respond, Allen added,

“Let’s sit.”

And then he sat down, right there on the ground, and looked at Cross expectantly until the boy followed with an irritated huff, so that they were cross-legged across from each other.

“Spill,” Cross half-ordered his master, who chuckled, but complied nonetheless.

“I am the Fourteenth,” Allen told him, simple and accompanied by no explanation whatsoever.

Cross felt his heart skip a beat, and jolted slightly, half-making as if to rise. Allen held up a hand, smile once again gone, and Cross sat down, stomach churning, eyes locked on Allen, the beginnings of betrayal crawling up his spine.

“Or rather,” Allen corrected, “I hold the memories of the Fourteenth. This lets me use the Ark, but I am not a Noah yet.”

Cross relaxed.

“Asshole,” Cross complained, reaching up to rub a hand over his face and cursing when he encountered the porcelain mask. “Why couldn’t you have just said that?”

Allen smiled, quiet and fond, and, without answering, continued, “Over time, the Fourteenth will wear me away, and eventually, I will be gone, and the Fourteenth will take my place in the world.”

Cross tensed all over again and cursed that man to hell and back.

“Great,” Cross half-growled, scowling at his master, mind kick-starting to try and dredge up everything he knew about the Noah (very little). “Fucking fantastic. How do we get rid of it?”

Allen blinked, clearly startled. “Hm?”

“Suicidal idiot,” Cross snapped. “How do we get _rid_ of it? You know, so that you don’t fucking die like a dumbass?”

Allen laughed. Cross hated that laugh. He had always hated that laugh.

“We’re not going to,” Allen explained to him gently. “I asked for this, you see. Thirty-five years ago, I promised the Fourteenth that I would host his memory.” Allen blew out a short, soft breath while Cross froze again. “I’m sorry. I tried to avoid making friends, so no one would be unhappy when I was gone. But I kept you.”

“That was a stupid thing to do,” Cross growled at him. Allen ducked his head, so his hair hid his eyes.

“I know. I’m sorry. I should have sent you on to the Order.” Sigh. “Tiedoll would have taken care of you, or Nyne.”

“Not _that,_ you idiot,” Cross snapped, reaching over to slap Allen upside the head. “Agreeing to host his memory! I don’t give a shit that you think you’ll ‘make me sad’ or whatever the fuck, but why the _hell_ would you agree to die?”

Allen blinked at him, visibly startled, and Cross scowled at him, insides rolling with apprehension and a fear he would never admit to.

Then Allen sighed again, and beckoned Cross. Against his better judgement, Cross leaned forward, and a moment later, Allen did as well, so his mouth was right by Cross’ ear.

“I must ask… something very selfish.”

Cross didn’t reply. Allen continued anyway.

“I ask that, when the Fourteenth takes my place, you listen to what he has to say.” A brief pause. “I won’t ask that you abandon the Order, or all your friends here – but there is more to this war than there seems, and the Fourteenth’s cause… Is a very good one, I think.” Pause, longer this time. “So, please… Listen to him. And think about it.”

Cross shoved Allen away roughly and scrambled to his feet, stepping back to clench his fists and glare at Allen, who was giving him a startled look again.

“Fuck you,” Cross spat. “Fuck you and your fucking peace bullshit and your goddamn _sympathy_ for things that want you dead.”

And Allen did not smile, and he didn’t apologize. His eyes were sad again, and Cross hated it.

“I need to do this,” was what Allen said instead. “I won’t ask you to understand or even to help, but you cannot stop me either, Cross. Not this.”

Cross glared at him, and he knew he was shaking, but he couldn’t do anything about it.

Allen looked over and nodded. “I’m done,” he said quietly. “Do as you will.”

The next thing Cross knew, he was being hustled away, and Allen was still there, looking at him, with eyes that knew that he was going to die soon, and he-

He was just going to _lie down_ and _take it._

Cross felt betrayed by that, he realized abruptly. He felt betrayed by the revelation that Allen wasn’t even going to fight it. He was just going to _die quietly._

“Fuck you, Master,” Cross muttered under his breath, ignoring the looks he got. “Fuck you.”

Maybe Allen was going to just let it happen, but Cross sure as hell wasn’t.

Fuck, did Allen know Cross _at all?_


	2. Chapter 2

The first time he met the Bookman Junior, he was ten years old.

Well, Red was ten years old; Bookman Junior, who introduced himself to the battered boy as John, was twelve. A show was just drawing to a close, and Red was hiding from the oncoming circus crowd in a rare moment of quiet.

Red looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps, a scowl on his face and his arm tucked close, and found a boy a little older than him with long red hair, a few shades brighter than Red’s own brownish auburn, and large round glasses, looking at him with thoughtful brown eyes. Red pulled back and scowled harder.

“Why are you bruised?” the boy asked plainly, with neither preamble nor introduction. It caught Red off-guard enough to answer instantly.

“Didn’t get the ringmaster his food quick enough.”

Then he scowled again, and the boy frowned, and then he sat down beside him, with a comfortable confidence Red had never seen in a boy his age before.

“I’m John,” the boy told him, cross-legged. “What’s your name?”

“I don’t have a name,” Red answered, leaning on his folded legs with another, confused frown at John. “Call me whatever.”

John hummed. “What do you do here?” he asked.

Red squinted at him suspiciously. “I do chores,” he replied at last, slow and wary.

After that, John kept asking questions, and soon it didn’t seem weird at all to tell him things, things he’d never talked about with anyone else – about the ringmaster’s abuse of him, about the hatred of people he’d never met before, the animal tamer who tried to shut him in cages, the cook who tried to poison him, the cold of the night.

John listened, frowning and smiling and shaking his head, and Red didn’t feel _better,_ afterward, but he felt lighter. He felt warm, and it only took a moment longer to realize that he’d formed a connection to this boy already – not the kind you depended upon, or the kind you sought comfort from, but the kind you never forgot.

Either way, it was the kind that Red had never had before.

Finally, Red had nothing more to say (and John still hadn’t said anything except things to get Red to talk more) and John asked, “Why don’t you leave?”

Red stared at him. John smiled, brown eyes bright behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

“There are lots of jobs someone like you could take,” John explained. “I mean, they’re kind of below-board, but that’s okay. Somehow, I don’t think you’d mind.”

No. He wouldn’t, honestly.

Red opened his mouth to reply, but a call made both boys look up.

“John!”

A man wandered into view and Red tensed up again. The man had thick makeup around his eyes and an ash-colored ponytail, and he was frowning at both of them.

“There you are,” the man snapped, looking irate. “Come. We’re done here.”

John blinked, and then he bobbed his head, hopping to his feet. Red stared after him, wide-eyed and startled, and at the last moment, John turned to look over his shoulder and smile at Red, bright and honest.

“I hope you get out of here soon, Red!” he said earnestly.

Red blinked at him, and John’s smile stretched into a grin that closed his eyes, a soft giggle escaping into the air. A moment later, he spun back around and trotted after the man, who glanced first at John and then, very deliberately, at Red, raising his eyebrows and saying something.

Red couldn’t make out John’s answer, but he didn’t need to.

It was about time, he decided, that he got out of here.

* * *

And he did. Red walked out of that circus not a week later, with a feeling of elation that he couldn’t capture in words if he tried.

Walked out of the circus, and into a drug ring.

Against all suppositions, this was, actually, an improvement. Fewer people in these parts cared about deformities, and he had ways to get food that wasn’t poisoned, a bed that wasn’t in a cage, and there were, generally, fewer attempts on his life; these people had bigger fish to fry than a disfigured orphan.

Sure, it had its own problems and its own risks. Drugged people did stupid things. Drugs themselves were tempting at times and hard to avoid. The beatings were at an only slightly slower rate, between money problems and aforementioned drugs and latent sadism.

But, all in all, he was glad he’d left the circus.

Over the next six years, he switched towns every so often, for various reasons. Once because he’d accidentally pissed the wrong person off. Once because work was generally low. Again because latent sadism was too high even for him.

The last time he switched, he stayed. For two… no, he could admit it, three reasons.

The first was that he’d found permanent work. It was in a brothel, but there was food and a bed and didn’t look to be going out of business anytime soon.

The second was the Campbell brothers, who were actually fun to be around when they, you know, _were_ around, were willing to be around a street brat like him. The Campbell brothers brought with them a childhood friend, Maria, a little quieter but more sharply intelligent.

The third- he’d found the boy who’d convinced him to leave the circus in the first place.

And the first thing the boy said to him was, “I’m glad you left that circus, Red.”

Any hope he’d had of pretending he’d never seen the boy before, of pretending he didn’t still remember him after all this time, left the moment he realized _John remembered him too._

Sure, John was now going by Allen, but Red didn’t really care about that. He hadn’t exactly given Allen an actual name either, so it wasn’t like he had any room to talk.

Here, working as a receptionist in a brothel, with an old acquaintance and three people who could become friends, Red, for the first time in his life, was almost content.

So of course it went to shit.

* * *

First, Allen died.

It was stupid and senseless; a carriage went out of control and crashed into him. A glancing blow, but from something of that size, it was devastating anyway. By the time Red, in the brothel Allen was about to visit, got to him, he was already taking his last, rattling breath.

Then, Mana made him an offer.

He came when Red was still kneeling on Allen’s grave, in the middle of the night, more upset than he really had any right to be. The twins had been there earlier, and so had Maria, but they’d left. The man from before – Bookman, he had since been told, with no explanation for the odd name – had stayed for far longer, but he, too, had left.

But Red couldn’t bring himself to leave, to take his eyes off that name, feeling a hollowness in his chest he couldn’t justify even to himself and a guilt as senseless as Allen’s death.

He didn’t even look up as footsteps drew near, and Mana’s voice rang out. He’d been expecting one of them to come, in the morning maybe, to force him to leave, to go back to the brothel, at least.

He didn’t expect, “I can bring him back, you know.”

That, in the end, was what caused Red’s head to jerk up, eyes wide and startled.

Mana’s skin was brown, and his eyes were gold. He was smiling - soft, reassuring. Gentle.

“What?” Red whispered, quiet and thready.

“I can bring him back,” Mana repeated, and he walked forward, steps graceful and deliberate, eyes still on Red. Red almost wondered if the changes to his appearance were a result of the lack of light, but those gold eyes, warm as they were, were too bright. “If you want.”

Red sat up, grey eyes wide and desperate.

“Please,” he nearly begged.

Allen had been the one to give him hope. He’d been the one to tell him it was possible, yes, possible to get better, to do better- He’d been the first one to pay attention to Red, to listen, to _care._

And maybe Red wouldn’t have thought twice about his death, even after they’d met the first time, but after they’d met again, Allen had kept treating him with that same comfortable warmth and attentiveness, and that wasn’t something Red had found in anyone else, not even in Mana or Neah or Maria.

He didn’t want to let that go.

Mana smiled, and there was something off, about the way he was acting, but Red couldn’t put his finger on it and right at that moment he didn’t care. “Just a moment.”

Red watched silently, confused, chest clenching, as Mana stood up, walked a few feet away, and then spun around, stretched an arm out beside him, palm up, and hummed, one note with no meaning. A call.

A skeleton, a large steel construct that was only vaguely human-shaped, grew out of the ground, as if by magic. Yes, that was what this had to be. Magic – magic of the most horrible sort.

If it brought Allen back, Red was perfectly okay with that.

Mana smiled – kind and warm and wrapped in something Red couldn’t identify just then. “Say his name.”

Red’s heart skipped a beat.

Allen, like Red, didn’t have a true name – Red had deduced that quickly enough, from the way his name had changed from ‘John’ to ‘Allen’, the way Allen treated it so carelessly, the way he only ever said ‘call me Allen’ or ‘I’m Allen’, never ‘my name is Allen’, as if to distance himself from it.

There was a moment of silence, and Red stared, frozen and wide-eyed. After a few seconds of that, Mana’s smile faltered, and something peeked into his eyes, some form of confusion-

Red made a snap decision, hoped to God it worked, and called,

“Bookman’s apprentice!”

It was one way Allen liked to identify himself, occasionally, in circumstances Red had never been quite able to determine – but it was not a name, not at all, and it seemed appropriate.

Sure enough, ‘Bookman’s Apprentice’ carved itself across the forehead of the skeletal structure, and it started to move – it pulled itself from its stand, and its held tilted down, as if to observe itself. Then it began to shift, testing one leg and the other and then its arms, flexing in short, subtle motions. Red stopped breathing.

_Allen._

A moment later, the gold started to clear from Mana’s eyes and the brown from his skin, and he turned, confusion beginning to turn into horror- The moment passed, and he smiled again, gold eyes gleaming.

The skeleton’s head, Allen’s head, snapped up and fixed its eyeless gaze on Red, still frozen.

“You turned me into an _akuma!”_ Allen blurted out, and there was no mistaking the horror in his voice, or the betrayal.

Red unfroze instantly, by way of hard-won instinct, and threw himself to his feet, taking a half-step back, right hand held up defensively. “I-I-”

“No!” Allen cut him off, refusing to listen for the first time – which was just as well, since Red had nothing to say, had no idea what was going on. “I can’t believe this, how _could_ you?”

“Akuma,” Mana said, far too calm, and Red would look at him but he couldn’t break his gaze away from Allen, who was- who was shaking. “Kill Red, and take his skin.”

Red’s heart stopped, but still he couldn’t take his eyes off Allen. He just took a step back, lifting his better arm defensively as if that could actually do anything against the massive blades the construct wielded.

Allen took a step forward to Red’s step back, arms down to his size as if he were approaching with clenched fists, except his had no fists to clench. (Red was shaking too.) And then he took another, and another, and Red couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move, he hadn’t been this terrified in- in a long time.

“I-” One arm lifted, as if holding something to bring down on Red’s head, but no, all it had was that blade. “I didn’t want this, Red!”

_Neither did I._

Red shut his eyes.

“I _curse you!”_

The whistle of the blade’s journey through the air reached his ears a moment before the weapon itself did, and he screamed as it cut into his face, throwing himself back on instinct.

Only one eye would open, but he saw the brown clear from Mana’s skin for real, he saw Mana’s eyes widen, saw him reach forward-

And he saw the akuma lunge toward him, and he felt his left arm, his worse arm, grow and twist into something not his, and he saw his left arm tear Allen apart, showering the ground in mechanical parts and black liquid.

“RED!” Mana called desperately.

And Red didn’t see or hear anything else.

* * *

When Red woke up, Mana had shut himself in his room, but Neah was there, looking frustrated and upset – and guilty, too.

Red couldn’t see why, but he also felt too hollow, ten times as worse as before Mana had come, to question it.

“We were going to tell you,” Neah said abruptly. “Soon.”

Red reached up, felt his bandaged face, guessed how much it would hurt to move any part of his face, and asked, “What?”

Neah told him – about Noah, about akuma, about the Order and the Holy War and the Bookmen and the Millennium Earl.

He told him that they were going to include him, soon – that his left arm was Innocence, and it would’ve let him join the Order, be their ‘inside man’.

He told him that Mana was too weak, he was going to lose control soon, and all of them knew it, but it wasn’t his fault, really. (He sounded bitter, so Red wasn’t sure he was the one that needed convincing.)

He told him that Neah was going to be the one who tried to take out the Noah, but he might die in the process – told him that Allen had promised that, if need be, if he did die, he could take his memory into his body.

“But I guess that can’t happen now,” Neah muttered, at once grieving and bitter. “Allen is gone.”

Allen was gone, but he’d left things behind – a job and a dream and a name that hadn’t really been his anyway, a name he had taken because it was convenient.

And Allen found his voice, and he said, “I can do that.”


	3. Chapter 3

Cross was hiding.

Cross hated hiding, he hated being anything less than the center of attention, but he did it anyway, because the monsters were still there. He could hear their footsteps echoing up and down the halls, he could hear the screams of the staff and students, and he could hear the crack and thunder of _something_ breaking the walls.

He shuddered, reaching up to press his fingers lightly over the agonizing burn of the brand on his face, and bit back a terrified sob, jerking his hand back down to clutch at rosary he wore. A shadow passed through the light filtering under the closet door, and he pressed himself further into the corner, trying to hide himself more, more. Lower down, his other hand curled around the cool grip of his father’s old gun, shaking.

Under his panting breath, not speaking for fear of being heard, Cross mouthed, _Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee-_

As time passed, the sounds gradually faded into nothing, the shouting and the crashing dying away, and for a moment, Cross wondered if they’d left – left and forgotten about him. His stomach was clenched so tight he felt nauseous, and he was almost cross-eyed, he was listening so hard, shaking in place.

There were footsteps, he realized after a moment, breath catching in his throat, air so thick he nearly choked on it. Coming toward him, slow and careless, echoing into the pressing silence.

With his eyes fixed on the door, he listened to the footsteps coming closer and closer. They came in front of the door, and- paused. Cross held his breath, shrinking back, sticky tears running down his cheeks and stinging at his burn like the flames of Hell were licking at his face.

Those monsters had killed his parents, smashed their heads with horrible crunching sounds and splashes of red blood and _worse,_ along with almost everyone else. Except him.

They’d marked him, telling him he was smart, he had a good brain, and he didn’t want to know what for. He didn’t even know how he’d stopped it. He didn’t know if he could do it again.

He wanted-

The doorknob turned, and Cross froze. A moment later, the door started to open, light spilling through, and with a breathy gasp, he jerked the gun up to point at it. Despite the tears on his face, he narrowed his eyes into a glare, wishing his hand wasn’t shaking.

Then it opened further, and he saw the figure on the other side.

 _Angel,_ was his first thought.

But angels hadn’t helped him while the monsters tore apart the university, so he kept the gun up, and snarled at it, his voice shaking as much as his hand, “Back off!”

The angel tilted its head, and then a small frown curved its lips. As Cross took him in further, he realized that he was being stupid; this was no angel at all. It was a man. Just a really weird one.

The man towered over him, his snowy white hair falling past his shoulders, which Cross could barely see because of the large white cloak that seemed to produce its own light. A wicked black clawed hand peeked out from under it, and a massive scar ripped down the left side of the man’s face, right through one of his silver eyes.

“Back off!” Cross repeated, louder, when he realized the man wasn’t moving.

The man’s frown changed into a soft, understanding smile, and, very slowly, he started to lower himself, until he stood in crouch before Cross. Cross swallowed.

“It’s all right, boy,” the man said to him, silver eyes steady and unafraid. His right hand, the normal one, reached out and settled over the muzzle of Cross’ gun, gently pushing it down. Cross let him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Cross’ breath hitched, and he moved neither forward nor back, trembling. “There are monsters here,” he warned unsteadily. “They’ll kill us both like-” He squeezed his fist in demonstration. _Crunch._ “That.”

“I took care of the monsters,” the man promised. “There’s no one here but us.”

Cross’ eyes widened despite himself. “No one?”

The man’s eyes softened, smile fading away. “No one. I’m sorry.” He reached out, slow and careful, and brushed his fingers across the burns on Cross’ face before Cross flinched away with a yelp. That hurt, that hurt, that- “Are you alright?”

“I’m f- _fine,”_ Cross tried to snap, knuckles white around the grip of the gun, shaking again. His gaze fell to the ground, and his shoulders shook once, then twice. He couldn’t stop crying. Why couldn’t he stop crying?

“Hm.” There was a brief flash, and then the light faded almost entirely. Cross glanced back up to find that the cloak had vanished, and though the man’s left hand was red, it wasn’t clawed and monstrous anymore. There was just him, in a black and gold uniform, with his long white hair and his vivid scar.

Cross might’ve been curious about how that was possible, but- No. No, he really wasn’t.

“Would you be willing to come with me, boy?” the man asked gently, his left hand moving to cover Cross’ right, steady and firm.

“Wh-why I should I?” Cross tried to challenge, but it came out too pathetic, even with the glare he aimed at the man.

The man smiled – gentle, wry, and something like enigmatic. “I can tell you what happened here,” he said quietly. “And why that gun of yours worked.”

It had worked for Cross. It hadn’t worked for anyone else. Like Cross’ father.

“Okay.” Cross pressed the hand with the gun to the ground and tried to push himself up, but he was too shaky from being tense for so long; his legs buckled under him and he fell with a yelp.

A moment later, the man leaned forward and scooped him up, lifting him as if he weighed nothing. Cross squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to whimper as the simple rush of air aggravated the burn on his face, still with a tight grip on the gun now resting on his stomach, and he felt the man sigh against him.

“I’m sorry,” the man murmured quietly, starting to move. “Bear with it, please. I can treat you when we get to where we’re going, but it’s going to hurt.” Quieter, “Stay strong.”

Cross wanted to answer, wanted to tell the man that he was a _stupid idiot imbecile,_ but the adrenaline had left him and now- it just really, really hurt.

A moment later, the man shifted Cross, and one of the man’s hands came up to cradle his face – fingers just skirting the edges of the wound, but solid enough to block most of the air flow from reaching Cross’ face. Cross opened his eyes a little and peered at the man blearily, seeing the man gazing back down at him, solemn and unsmiling.

“It’ll be alright, boy,” the man told him when he noticed him watching. “You’ll see.”

“Stupid,” Cross mumbled, letting his eyes close and his head rest against the man’s chest, just the left side pressed against it. “…’S your name?”

“Allen,” the man replied. “General Allen Walker.”

“Oh.” Cross took a breath and let it out, long and shuddering. “…’M Cross.”

“Hello, Cross. It’s good to make your acquaintance.”

_Whatever._


	4. Chapter 4

“Your _friends_ never have any good books,” Cross bitched, slamming the book shut to scowl at Allen.

Irritatingly enough, Allen just looked faintly amused. “I never was blessed with the most legitimate of friends. We make do.”

Eleven-year-old Cross crossed his arms and huffed. “This is _boring,”_ he bit out. He shoved the book at Allen, cover first. “Look at this! I could’ve understood this when I was _eight.”_

Allen picked up the book and examined the cover obediently, looking it up and down. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, and he glanced at Cross. “This is a year twelve physics textbook,” he said mildly, putting it down on the table.

“It’s _old,”_ Cross said petulantly, reaching up to scratch under his relatively new mask. “It’s _so old_ that it’s _wrong.”_

“So it’s boring, elementary, and also wrong?” Allen bantered gently, opening it himself to scan the pages.

Cross scowled harder and didn’t reply. He didn’t really expect Allen to get it, because Allen hadn’t ever shown even a _little_ interest in finding new books or research, and most adults were quick to remind Cross that they were older and smarter than he was.

Bullshit.

Sure enough, after a few moments, Allen closed the book and shook his head, smiling gently, and handed it back to him.

“I won’t pretend I see the problem,” Allen told Cross, who jerked his head away, frustrated. But then Allen continued, “But this is a larger city, so we should be able to go to a library tomorrow if you do well in training.”

“I _always_ do well,” Cross said defensively, hiding his surprise.

Allen smiled at him warmly. “Yes, you do,” he agreed easily, and Allen fucking Walker never made any damn sense.

“Well…” Cross frowned at him, lingering and suspicious. “Good.”

“Good,” Allen agreed with clear amusement. Then it dissolved into a faintly thoughtful look, and Cross scooted away, trying not to feel too unnerved. After a few moments, Allen continued, “In the meantime, why don’t you walk me through that textbook? Tell me what’s wrong with it.”

“I _said_ I understand it,” Cross snapped, pushing back and giving Allen a frustrated look with more hurt in it than he’d meant.

Allen raised his hands in surrender. “I know,” he assured Cross. “I believe you.”

Cross scowled at him for a moment. “Then why do you want me to prove it?”

Allen smiled, patient and rueful and something else. “That wasn’t my intention at all. I thought you’d enjoy teaching someone else. Was I wrong?”

“There’s no point if you already know it,” Cross said petulantly, crossing his arms. He didn’t know how old Allen was, but he was _definitely_ old enough to have gone through year twelve.

Allen raised his eyebrows, visibly surprised. And then he smiled again.

“But I don’t,” he replied, making Cross start, raising surprised eyes to meet Allen’s. Allen’s smile twitched with held-back laughter. “I didn’t have the education you’ve had, and even if I had-” His smile softened. “Well, I can already tell that you’re much smarter than I am.”

“No way,” Cross said, before he could stop himself. Over the last year, Allen had proven himself stronger, more experienced, and more patient than Cross. He was like a _legend_ sometimes – it was unnerving. There was just… no way.

“It’s true,” Allen assured him. “And I’m certain that time will prove it. Now, if you’d like…?” He gestured questioningly to the textbook, eyebrows raised in question.

Cross gave him one last suspicious look, and then, slowly, opened it, flipped to the first chapter, and then beckoned Allen a little closer. Allen obediently brought a chair near and sat beside him, and, slow and cautious, Cross started, “So how this goes, is this-”

* * *

Cross impatiently brushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes and forcibly relaxed his too-tight grip on Judgement. He took a deep breath, listened, and then spun around and pulled the trigger before he could even process what he saw, heart racing in anticipation.

When he focused, he could see Allen smiling at him warmly, paused in place, and then he nodded down. Cross flicked his eyes down, and there was Judgement’s bullet, on the ground, crumpled from its collision with Allen’s own bulletproof Innocence.

A self-satisfied smile flickered across his face. Allen’s challenge to him for the day was to manage to shoot him five times before Allen could tag him ten, and that was number five. He’d done it.

When he looked back up, Allen had deactivated, his dark uniform once again visible and his white hair shining starkly against it. He looked ruffled, as anyone who’d been running around as much as Allen had been would be, but not nearly as much as Cross felt he should. Still, he looked as pleased as Cross did, and twice as proud.

“Well done,” Allen complimented easily, nodding to let Cross deactivate Judgement. Cross did, tucking it away and slowly relaxing as the adrenaline drained away. “And as promised, we can go to the library next. Would you want to go straight away, or do you want a chance to wash up first?”

Cross considered, panting as he caught his breath, and then, after a few moments, wrinkled his nose. “Let’s go back first. I feel _gross.”_

“Back it is,” Allen agreed, reaching out automatically to place his hand on Cross’ shoulder and guide him in the right direction. Cross rolled his eyes, but allowed it; Allen never deliberately initiated an encounter with akuma when Cross was tired from training, and he never did it by accident, either.

That was another thing that seemed unbelievable about Allen. Unlike Cross, he could _see_ akuma – it was an effect of his curse, he had explained once, but he hadn’t said any more than that. Either way, though, it had kept many, many akuma from catching them by surprise in the streets or at night.

Cross didn’t usually go places without Allen.

Walking through the city, Cross was pretty sure Allen was leading them the long way around – he did it pretty often. He also, unlike Cross, didn’t seem to notice the people who would turn their heads to stare at them, or stop to whisper, and rapidly, Cross’ discomfort rose to the forefront.

Finally, Cross ducked his head, instinctively reaching for his mask and half-covering the porcelain with his fingers as he avoided the gazes of those around them.

“Master?” he asked abruptly, without looking up. “Why don’t you hide _your_ scar?” Or his hair, or his arm, or anything else that might be considered strange or abnormal, which was almost everything about him. Even the shine of his eyes sometimes seemed supernatural.

“Why don’t I?” From anyone else, Cross would have expected surprise or even apprehension, but Allen only sounded thoughtful. “…I suppose I haven’t ever felt I should.”

“You don’t make sense,” Cross complained, and then immediately regretted it.

That brought a pause, only just perceptible – Cross wouldn’t have noticed it at all if Allen wasn’t touching him. Then, quietly, Allen told him, “You shouldn’t feel bad that you want to hide it. It’s only natural.”

When he looked up at Allen, Allen was smiling at him, soft and reassuring.

“But _you_ don’t,” Cross muttered unhappily, trying to squash down the creeping shame.

“I never said that,” Allen corrected, without taking his eyes off Cross’, still earnest and gentle.

For a few moments, Cross was silent, and then he took a deep breath, dropped his hand from his mask, and asked, “Are we there yet?”

Allen laughed quietly. “Almost.”

“Good.”

Cross’ hand twitched up a few more times before they got there, but it never made it to his mask.


End file.
